


of monsters and mirrors

by Ara (WalkUnseen)



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Aftermath snippet that will most likely be shattered by canon, Episode 48 came for my heart and soul, Metaphors, Mirrors, Spoilers for Ep 48 of course
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 14:08:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17489444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WalkUnseen/pseuds/Ara
Summary: [[EP 48 SPOILERS]]"The figure in the mirror stares back at him and all he can hear is Nott's voice; the way it trembled and shook, the way she spit and hissed, the way she all but snarled, the way shelookedat him. The way the words fell from her lips and all he could feel was everything collapsing around him, two pieces of parchment the catalyst in a reaction that turned caustic-- dangerous. That dissolved the thread between them in an instant  and all he could hear was‘your fault’, ‘your people’, ‘you’, ‘you did this’-- ash on his hands, fire in his throat, tearing up his lungs and choking him until all he could do was expel it. "





	of monsters and mirrors

**Author's Note:**

> Ambiguous aftermath of ep. 48 involving introspection and mirrors and a brief conversation between our goblin and wizard. 
> 
> me researching how prevalent mirrors are in medieval times so i can match my aesthetic and metaphorical purpose: need to be somewhat accurate
> 
> me after an hour; f&ck it. im writing it, whatever. historical accuracy be damned. 
> 
> unbetaed and the usual weird writing style. sorry.

_“Your people.”_

The man in the mirror is a phantom. A empty-eyed, shambling husk, a straw man stuffed to the brim with rot and it's poking through the seams. It's dark, its late, but that doesn't mean he can't still see the color of his own eyes reflected back at him, the sunken, sallow give to his cheeks, the way his hands are trembling where he palms at his mouth, rubs at his jaw, and tugs tremoring fingers through his hair. 

_“Your people.”_

He glances over his shoulder, to the remainder of the hall, to the closed door they've hidden behind, to the rest of them. Temporarily, mercifully abandoned in the wake of an empty corridor, a simple mirror tacked to the wall at the far end and his feet drew him to it. He needed to know, to know if she could somehow see it on him-- see _him_ there amongst the dirt and the grime and the way he's tried to smother him out, but he can't cover him up, he can't get him out of where he's stuck in his head. That endless litany of teachings that end and begin with the dogma embedded in his skull and stuck in the winding scars hidden beneath fabric and bandages. 

_“Your people.”_

He hunches, hands curling over his ears and the hissed venom spilled into them. Shaking his head, catching a fleeting glimpse of himself caught in that mirror and he flinches. _Pathetic. Weak. Worthless. Your people, your fault--_

_“Fuck him.”_

It stings, it burns, it's settled into his veins as much as the way she spoke to her son-- her _son_. A small strangled sound leaves him and he smothers it, presses his palm to his teeth and resists the urge to dig them into the meat of it and feel anything besides the ripping, bleeding sensation in his chest. She spoke to that boy-- she kneeled and comforted him in the same tone-- in the same way-- called him _‘smart boy_ ’-- she-- he looks to the mirror and he wonders if that's all she saw in him.

A frightened child, something to coddle, a wounded animal, an asset, a tool, a dog-- a beaten, bloodied dog and if she extended her hand, if she showed him kindness she could get him to heel for her. And he did. He did and he feels like an idiot for thinking that--- for even fathoming that for a moment that she wasn't using him-- that someone wasn't just _using_ him. That maybe-- _Maybe_ he could accept her hand and accept her friendship and he wouldn't burn for it. That she wouldn't turn on him, that she wouldn't abandon him when the people that actually mattered to her showed up. 

A withered barking laugh bleeds from his lips, scraping along his ribs on its way out and it chokes off into a pathetic hitching sound that he smothers. He presses his hand tight against his lips, fingers digging into his cheeks, nails biting mercilessly and he glances back up to that other Caleb in the mirror. The one whose eyes are misted and the image of a man muzzling himself distorting with the rise of heat behind them. 

He has no right to pity himself, to cry, to feel sorry for himself, to lament _any_ kind of loss here. Because he should have known. He should have known that the only reason people form friendships, form any kind of bond, is because you mete out their usefulness and you tether it to yourself, no matter what it takes. A false kindness, a farce of comfort, of support, of unwavering loyalty-- of braiding flowers into his hair and saying they'll keep him safe, that they'll keep him alive. And not because he meant anything to her, but because he was useful-- because she could use him-- and he was too blinded by the idea that maybe she was a friend, that he was something more than just a tool, that he let himself get attached-- he let himself be vulnerable and he paid for it. 

_”Use who you need to.”_

_“You do what you have to.”_

A dark mirror, a shadowed parallel. Moral ambiguity and grey motivations he knows all too well. A man studying in seclusion for his own purposes; alive because he used the skills and assets of others to stay that way, to get there, to achieve what he needed. Yussa's advice still ringing in his skull in a familiar mantra, a familiar string of words he's told himself; _’But know everyone can be useful if you can mete out their skills.’_ And Nott had done that hadn't she? Done it effortlessly, in fact. Maybe in seconds, when she was tossed into that cell with him, when she saw him and she determined-- _this one, keep this one, useful_ \-- and he knows that feeling all too well, because he looked at her and thought the same. 

And maybe he's always determined things that way. 

Mathematically, simplistically, an equation and a calculation that he knows the result of, he just needs to find the variables. The way he seized an opportunity on the guise of Ford's curiosity and secured a fraction of an answer in the form of a favor. Because Fjord has potential and a part of him knows he need it-- needs him-- needs all of them. They fit into the system and he needs to ensure they stay that way. But he can't help the disgusting curl of unease by his drive to do anything to gain a foothold, because when he looks at his reflection sometimes it isn't him looking back. 

It's Trent.

It’s people like Yussa.

Its callous people, it's people steeped in moral ambiguity in the hunt for what they truly want-- people just like him, because who is he to set himself aside from them? He knows all of Ikithon’s words are there, that he's used them to justify his actions, his motives, his morals. Parroted them in his decision to look to Fjord and advise that the half-orc make a sacrifice in order to solidify their continued and favorable survival. 

And in the moment he didn't think twice about it, he never looked back while he was speaking, while he was slicing his palm open, while he was collecting favors and recording debts, he never thought about how it was all just like _him_ , just like everything he was taught. Not until he's  standing in the wake of his decisions and all he can feel is nausea.

_“Your people.”_

One of them. Inseparable from it all. Because he can't outrun Ikithon. He's always right there. And if they aren't found by him, then Caleb will eventually ensure one of their demises whether he wants to or not. Like unknowingly abandoning Jester and knowingly abandoning Nott to face a dragon to ensure his own survival-- he'll do it again, he knows he will. He knows it as plainly as the way Yussa looked at him and immediately recognised someone who's willing to do anything to get what they want. The way he pries at that fear that won't leave him alone, because he's never sure if it's him or Ikithon. Never sure where that reflection in the mirror begins and ends with himself and the other.

And how much of himself isn't actually him? 

How much of his head is as twisted as the memories that led him to a conviction that crumpled at the fallout of his own calculated choice?

How much of Ikithon is still always right there in his head? 

The figure in the mirror stares back at him and all he can hear is Nott's voice; the way it trembled and shook, the way she spit and hissed, the way she all but snarled, the way she _looked_ at him. The way the words fell from her lips and all he could feel was everything collapsing around him, two pieces of parchment the catalyst in a reaction that turned caustic-- dangerous. That dissolved the thread between them in an instant  and all he could hear was _‘your fault’, ‘your people’, ‘you’, ‘you did this’_ \-- ash on his hands, fire in his throat, tearing up his lungs and choking him until all he could do was expel it. 

He can feel it now, creeping up slowly, the seeping panic underneath the surface; up to his neck, to his chin, and he's afraid he might drown in it. Everything is dangerous now, everything could get him killed, get them killed. And they managed to avoid the two mages, secure an inn, but now Beauregard wants them to talk things out and he doesn't want to enter that room. He doesn't want to share an ounce of any of it. Not like this. Never like this. Not when he doesn't have anything to fall back on. Where before the reassurance was that Nott would leave with him if Beauregard reacted badly, he doesn't think he has that anymore. He doesn't think he has anyone anymore-- not anyone in that room at least. All he has are the voices in his head, the memories, the phantoms he can't get away from--

_“Your people.”_

His hands curl into fists at his sides, a burning spark catching under his sternum, and where before he warily eyed that repulsive reflection, he glares at it. Unwavering, unfaltering and he remembers everything he _hates_ about it-- about himself. Because he's still like everything he hates about this Empire, about the people that run it, who influence it. There's the indescribable urge to throw his fist into that reflection and watch it shatter and crack into a scattering of mirrors, but that would only create more of them-- more of him--

And one is already far too many. 

He turns on his heel, slinks to the door, to the room they decided to meet in. Pauses outside of it, hand hovering over the handle and he contemplates turning it, going in-- a fraction of a thought, of a need to slice out a part of this and hand it over, because it burns where it sits in his head. 

Instead he shakes his head, backing away, heel catching on an uneven floor board and he stumbles, righting himself with the harsh sound of a sole on wood. There's a lull in conversation beyond the barrier and he flinches at the sound of footsteps, quickly turning from the door, ribs jerking and heart sliding frantically in his chest.  

He needs to leave. They are not safe with him-- he isn't safe with them-- Nott has a family-- she has a real son-- she has people she needs to protect and if she ties herself to him she will die with him. 

They could all die with him-- _because_ of him and he can't-- he doesn't-- 

The door opens with creak of hinges and he's only managed to make it to the end of the hall.

“Nott, wait, he might not want to talk to you righ--” The door slams on Beau's attempts and he freezes, an inch from rounding the corner and escaping breathing harsh in the quiet, thunderous in his ears like the crack of everything that follows the ruinous destruction of lightning. 

“Caleb?” 

He doesn't turn around. Even though it's her. Candle-glow eyes; gold, liquid compassion. He remembers too vividly them turning to poison, _dangerous_ , a viper's coiled defense and she lashed out at him, because it's his people who did this.

_Unforgivable._

“I think we need to talk.” She continues, his silence prompting her apparently and he listens, but he doesn't hear, because a part of him wants to turn around, wants to accept this second extended charity. 

But he's afraid of it. He so desperately found himself fond of her friendship, of her easily given comforts, of the reminders of a maternal touch he burned away in all the words and the ways she spoke to him. Selfishly, foolishly, stupidly; to think he was _worth_ her friendship. Her forgiveness. 

“Please.”

She begs and he feels himself falter on the edge of a line, at the sheer drop of a precipice. A cliff before him and her behind him and he can step off and sever this, end this dangerous game he's played by being close to all of them, by toying with friendship and affection-- he can fall away from it all. Just a single step, a choice, two threads branching from one and he needs to make a decision.

“I know you might be confused, that you might be scared…” She pauses, footsteps drawing closer. “That I--” She falters and there's the distinct sound of feet shuffling. “That I hurt you... but I don't want you to leave, Caleb.” 

Two threads. 

Two choices. 

And he wishes he knew the end of each of them. That he knew which choice was the right one here. But he doesn't and he _hates_ not knowing. 

“None of us want you to go.” She continues and he hunches, shoulders ratcheting up, hands curling into the edges of his coat, fingers digging into the furred lining. “I know you think it might be the best decision, but it's not.”

“How do you know that?” He finally asks, quiet, barely a breath past his lips and he's afraid she didn't hear him, because she says nothing for a terribly quiet moment. 

“I don't,” she admits, “But I know we'll do everything we can to help you if you stay.” 

He laughs, broken, bitter, chin dipping towards his chest. “You'll all be killed.” 

“I don't think you'll let that happen.” She says and his brow furrows.

“You don't understand.” He breathes, turning on his heel, keeps his head bowed; avoids looking up at eyes-- at eyes that brimmed with accusation and betrayal in one. “I'm not strong enough to--” He chokes on the words, throat closing and teeth clicking shut against them.

He's not strong enough to  face him, stand up to him, shed him and his influence, to carve out all the parts of him turned tainted and festering by his hands. He's never been strong enough. And he's afraid that all the spells in the world won't help him kill that reflection he sees in the mirror. 

“I can't guarantee he won't find me-- find you all-- and string us all up to rot in the sun with our guts hanging at our feet.” He mutters and all he can see is them, strewn and carved into pieces of viscera and indecipherable meat in his head. Unrecognizable. Unsalvageable. 

She recoils, taking a step back, and he hears her huff out a breath, gathering her conviction before she takes another step towards him and he barely resists the urge to recoil and fall back. “We'll _help_ you get stronger, Caleb.” 

He wrings at his wrists and sighs, palming at his jaw and kneading at his eye sockets with the heels of his palms as if it will relieve the mounting pressure behind them. She doesn't understand. None of them _understand_ because none of them know Ikithon like he does. None of them understand what he can do-- all the ways he can make them wish they were dead. 

“It's too risky, it's too--” Dangerous, miscalculated, foolish. There's too much sentiment here, too much attachment and he needs to sever it before it grows into something he can't run from anymore. 

She takes another step forward, the gap of safety between them shrinking. “If you just let us, we'll do everything we can to help you face your past.” 

He just shakes his head, taking a step back, fingers fisting back into the lapels of his coat, searching for something grounding amongst the absence of Frumpkin, because he doesn't deserve even that comfort right now. He didn't deserve the comfort of Beauregard trying to stop Nott from shouting at him, from her reaction to the revelation, from her blatantly connecting him to everything that's happening here in front of the others. Because she wasn't wrong-- she wasn't--

_‘Your people’ ‘Well fuck him!’ ‘Your people’_

**_‘Your people.’_ **

Monsters, murderers, fucking _worthless_ pieces of garbage and he was wrong to think he wasn't one of them for even a fraction of a second. 

Nott was just telling the truth. 

Nothing she said was a lie. 

She sighs, nodding, glancing back to the room and the others beyond the door before turning back to him. A weight on her shoulders, and where before she was always short, she feels even smaller, like the gravity of the situation, of her circumstances, of her choices and decisions and her past weigh as heavily upon her as his does. And it's familiar-- it's all too familiar.  

“At least let me explain myself,” She tries, voice wavering. “At least try and talk to the others, and if you--” She waves her hand, gestures to his freedom beyond the hall. “If you still want to leave…” She closes the gap until she's standing before him. “If you're still set on going after all of it. If you still think it's for the best.” She extends her hand. “I won't stop you.” 

He stares at the bandaged hand. Viridian skin where she changed it to something he didn't recognize hours before. To someone that wasn't Nott. To someone he can't trust. Someone unrecognizable. The way she always spoke of herself, of looking in the mirror and seeing a _monster_ \-- he had latched onto that because he sees a monster in the mirror too. 

But he doesn't think it's the same anymore. 

“Please, Caleb.” She flexes her hand, extends it up to him, an offering; a reach across the gap filled with a hurt he can't ever properly explain to her. 

He wants to say no. He wants to turn away. He wants to see her face fall, ~~he wants it to hurt~~ , he wants her to know he won't be used again, he won't fall for it again. But he's always been too quick to get attached and she's giving him a choice.  She's giving him a chance. And maybe he can grant her the same. 

He tries not to listen to that small voice in the back of his head that whispers maybe it won't happen again, maybe he was wrong, maybe she still wants him around-- that she didn't mean it, that he's overreacting and she didn't want to hurt him. He tells himself she won't do it again, because she's all he has left. She's all he has... 

He takes her hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes your worst fear is looking in the mirror and seeing the people that hurt you...


End file.
